


to hell with romancing

by bottomlinsons (grimgrace)



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Based on the 'fingersinthebootyassbitch' twitter event, Humor, Literally the dumbest thing I have ever written, M/M, Past Eleanor Calder/Louis Tomlinson, Rimming, You Have Been Warned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-05
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-05-18 10:38:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,225
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5925430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimgrace/pseuds/bottomlinsons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>“Louis,” Harry says solemnly. “You don’t have to be ashamed of putting thing in your butt.”</i> </p><p>(A short AU wherein ex-girlfriends are nasty, Harry is confused, and Louis is apparently far more open to experimenting than Harry initially thought.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	to hell with romancing

**Author's Note:**

> To the anon who sent me this prompt: you're a star and I think I'm in love with you. 
> 
> Lyrics from Baby Got Back by Sir Mix-A-Lot.

 

 

Harry wakes up and all is well.

The sun is shining, the air is clear and, as a result of his mind-bogglingly wonderful new mattress, his back doesn’t even hurt. He feels so good, in fact, that after he has his breakfast — a banana and his traditional kale apple smoothie — he decides to go for a run.

By the time he gets back from his run, however, this has changed.

He’s missed seven phone calls from management, two from Niall and one from Liam. He’s got almost forty unread texts, as well, texts that definitely weren’t there when he left. The first, from Jeff, reads rather ominously: _fucking, get on twitter._

He does.

Oh, he thinks.

“Oh,” he says.

All is decidedly _not_ well, it seems.

Not well at all.

**.**

Louis face, when he arrives at the office five minutes after everyone else, is dark. Harry gets it, he does. Emergency office meetings are annoying at any time. Even Harry’s a little bit miffed that he’s had to drive all the way in and, well, he’s not the one whose apparent bedroom proclivities have just been revealed to the world.

“Louis,” Liam says straight away. He looks sympathetic, but Harry knows very well Louis’ not going to take it that way. “How are—?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Louis snaps.

Called it, Harry thinks.

“Louis. Mate,” Niall apparently tries a different tactic. Harry suspects it isn’t going to go well for him, either. “You know we don’t care, don’t you? I mean, everyone likes different things, it’s always fun to experiment—”

“Niall,” Louis interrupts.

“Yeah?”

 “If you ever try to talk to me about this again, I will reach down your throat and pull out your fucking tonsils with my bare hands.”

Called it again, Harry thinks.

Niall, however, has always possessed an uncanny ability to bounce back that Liam’s never had. Particularly where Louis is concerned.

As such, Niall just shrugs. “S’that another thing you like then?”

The look Louis shoots him is so acidic Harry honestly, truly, worries a little bit for the Irishman’s safety.

But, well, it’s not like Louis didn’t have it coming. Not with that attitude.

“Everyone shut up,” Katie says as she walks in.

Katie’s worked with them for years now, focusing on only the biggest of their PR disasters. She’s a tall, blonde woman who loves wearing heels and had threatened to murder Harry one time when he’d asked if she’d played basketball. It’s a tall girl thing, apparently. Despite how much Harry likes her, her presence is a bad sign.

Louis looks like he feels the same, if the way he sinks into his chair means anything. Harry doesn’t blame him, either, not when he sees the glare she’s sending Louis’ way.

“What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” she demands.

Louis splutters furiously. “What?” he shrieks. “You’re blaming me!?”

“Of course, I’m fucking blaming you,” Katie snaps. The swearing is a bad sign. Usually she’s a little better put together. “Who else am I going to blame?”

“Uhm, _Eleanor_!?”

Louis’ arm swings wildly through the air, like he can pinpoint his ex-girlfriend’s exact location, despite her being several thousand miles away.

“Eleanor isn’t my client,” Katie says straight away. “I am not responsible for Eleanor. What Eleanor says isn’t any of my concern.”

Louis makes an indignant huffy sound. “Well, it bloody well is now.”

“Oh, believe me,” Katie says acerbically. “I know.”

“Then why the fuck are you blaming me?” Louis demands.

Katie leans forward. She slaps the files she was carrying down in the middle of the table before resting her weight on the table, fingers straining. It’s all very intimidating.

“Because this,” she says slowly, dangerously. “Is all. Your. Fault.”

Louis’ never been one to go down without a fight. Harry’s always liked that about him.

“What?” he practically shrieks. “Fuck you. _How_?

“I told you not to start anything,” Katie snaps back. “I told you specifically not to start anything with Max Hurd; _I said it to your face._ And what did you do — not five fucking hours later?”

Louis deflates a little at that.

He grumbles something.

Katie’s eyes narrow to slits. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice deadly quiet now. “What was that?”

Louis glares up at her, defiantly. He’s a fair sight braver than Harry. The look Katie is giving him has probably, actually _melted_ people in the past.

“I said,” he says, jutting his chin out, “I did.”

Katie takes a deep, terrifying breath. “Yes. You did. And look where it’s got you.”

That, it seems, is enough to send Louis rocketing back on the offensive. “Well, how the fuck was I supposed to know she’d say that?”

“You weren’t supposed to be fighting in the first place!”

Louis rolls his eyes. “You’re not here because of the fighting!” he says. “No one cares if me and Max have an argument, it happens all the time!”

“Well, they fucking care now, don’t they?”

Louis sinks back down into his chair. Harry thinks that’s probably the best move.

“And you’re right,” Katie continues. “I’m not here because you fought. I’m here because you fought, without thinking about the consequences, and now we’re in this fucking mess.”

She flips open the folder. The tweet in question has been printed out, there for the whole room to see. It’s even in coloured ink.

“The hash tag is my favourite bit,” Niall chirps up.

“Niall, for the love of god,” Liam says.

Louis keeps his defiant gaze on Katie though, not once glancing down at the printed tweet.

“What?” Louis says. “You want me to apologise?” His eyebrow jerks on the left, a challenge in and of itself. He gives as good as he gets, Harry thinks. “I’m not going to apologise for liking what I like.”

Hear, hear, Harry thinks.

“Hear, hear,” Harry says.

He realises in the following second it’s the first thing he’s contributed to the conversation. The room turns to stare at him. Harry doesn’t care though; he’s been Kinsey six as long as they can all remember. This shouldn’t surprise them.

He looks over at Louis, planning on showing his support with another gesture of solidarity. He stops though, when he meets his eyes, because Louis’ looking at him kind of funny. His cheeks have gone a peculiar kind of pink. It’s a new look for the older boy, Harry thinks. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Louis look so... flustered.

Louis clears his throat before Harry can say anything.

“Right, well,” he says, looking almost hastily back at Katie. “What are we going to do about it?”

Liam snorts. When everyone swivels their heads in his direction, he shrugs guiltily. “Sorry,” he says. “It’s just, like. You’re not actually planning on replying, right?”

There’s a pause.

Liam looks incredibly apologetic, but doesn’t back down.

“Like,” he tries again. “Is there anything you can really say?”

.

There isn’t, it turns out. Louis’ instructions are to suck it up, stay the fuck off Twitter and lay low, in that order. Harry, Niall and Liam are told similar things.

All too soon, and with one final ‘fuck with me, just fucking try it’ look from Katie, they are dismissed released from the small office. Liam and Niall give Louis a wide berth, apparently learning from their earlier exchanges.

Harry does no such thing.

“Hey,” he says, sidling up to Louis.

Louis eyes him warily. “Hey.”

“What’s up?”

Louis regards him with a very, very dry look.

Harry shrugs.

Louis sighs. “Nothing, I suppose,” he says.

“Wanna grab a bite?”

There’s another beat. 

“ _Seriously_?”

Harry shrugs again. “Yeah. Why not?”

The incredulous little crease in between Louis’ eyebrows is actually kind of adorable, Harry notices errantly.

“Why not!?” Louis echoes. “I can’t show my face is _why not_.”

“Come to my place then,” Harry suggests.

Honestly, the way Louis’ looking at him, Harry could have just threatened to kill his mother. “I can’t—” Louis splutters. “I can’t come to your place, Harry.”

“Why not?” Harry asks again.

“You just heard why not!” Louis says, his arms gesturing wildly all over the place. It’s one of his things that he does, something Harry learnt about him very early on. It’s like all that anger can’t be contained in his little body and needs a desperate way to escape — managing it will exuberant and dramatic hand gestures.

Harry can never, ever, ever, tell Louis this observation.

Instead he shoots Louis an unconcerned look. “I don’t see why this needs to be a big deal,” he says. “Do you want me to treat it like one?”

This, surprisingly, actually shuts Louis up for a second. His jaw snaps closed and he considers Harry for a very long, drawn out moment. Then he takes a deep breath.

“No,” he says slowly.

Harry nods. “Okay then. So, lunch?”

He thinks for a second that Louis’ going to say no again. Whatever’s going through Louis’ head, whatever thoughts he’s thinking, or pros and cons he’s weighing, are a mystery to Harry.

He agrees in the end though. Sure, it’s with a cautious, slightly suspicious, “Go on then.”

Harry takes it.

.

Harry would like very much to say that things return to normal after that. Louis lies low and doesn’t reply to the tweet and eventually, in a wave of Tumblr gifs and Buzzfeed articles, the scandal fades. Louis’ tempers settles, Liam stops shooting him worried looks all the time and Niall stops with the awful jokes.

But, like.

The thing is.

The thing is that Harry’s struggling.

And it’s nothing homophobic, honestly. Harry knows all too well that gay guys can be just as homophobic as anyone else. But this isn’t that, it’s really, really not. Sure, he’s struggling with the idea of Louis getting a couple of fingers curled up in his own arse — but it’s not the actual thought that’s his problem.

It’s more that he can’t _stop_ thinking about it, actually.

Like, literally. It may well be impossible.

He thinks about it in the mornings, in the shower and on his runs. He imagines how Louis would start, with one finger that slowly graduates to two. He can see, with almost perfect clarity, what he looks like twisted around himself, trying to reach those hard to reach places. The way that the skin on his side would stretch on one side, how the other side would squish together.

He goes to lunch with Jeff and Glenne and spends the entire time thinking about what Louis would look like after, gaping and open, desperate for something to fill him up. He wonders how many fingers Louis’ got to, two or three or four.

He thinks about what Eleanor might have done, might have seen. He seethes with it, that she could have seen Louis like that, exposed and vulnerable, and had cared so little that she just announced it to the world.

Harry would have treated it like a privilege; Harry would have thought it was a fucking gift—

But that doesn’t matter. Because the way that Harry would have done it, would have treated it, is completely irrelevant because Harry didn’t do it and he’s never going to get the chance. Because Louis is _straight_ , always has been, and no matter how much he might appreciate his prostate, that hadn’t changed.

But like.

That doesn’t mean Harry can’t think about it, right?

.

They’re all sitting in Liam’s lounge room. Liam’s LA house is significantly smaller than Harry’s or Louis’ places, but Harry’s sick of his place and Louis’ street is still full to the brim with paps.

Besides, Liam has the new Call of Duty game.

It’s a demo version, not yet to available to the public and only available to Liam because he’d paid an absolutely ridiculous amount of money to the creators.

(“ _Look_ ,” Liam had said when Harry had expressed his astonishment, “ _I don’t tell you not to spend all your money on your dumb Hawaiian shirts, leave my games alone_.” — “ _Dumb?!”_ The conversation focus had shifted a little after that.)

Niall had practically leapt through the door when Liam had opened it, shouldering his way through and heading straight for the television console. He’d snatched the first controller without a second’s hesitation. Liam got the second, on account of the game being, you know, _his_.

It leaves Louis and Harry as spectators, but Harry’s not particularly concerned. He’s too focused on trying to figure out the exact dimensions of Louis’ slim fingers.

Louis seems content to just sink into the couch that Niall and Liam have left empty — both of them electing to sit closer to the television to gain some kind of advantage. Niall snatches Liam’s bright red bean bag before Liam gets the chance, leaving the taller boy grumbling under his breath.

Harry doesn’t pay too much (read: any) attention to the game as it starts. As far as Harry’s concerned, one Call of Duty is as good as any other. It’s why he doesn’t get to play as much as the others.

Anyway, he’s about to doze off — probably to more awful, perverted thoughts of Louis’ fingers in specific places — when Niall starts barking clear instructions at Liam.

“Go round the — yeah, okay and then — oh fuck, Liam, shoot that guy! Shoot him—!”

It’s not exactly a lullaby.

Harry huffs and resigns himself to devoting the next three hours of his life to this useless activity when Louis sighs. He shuffles a little closer to Harry, shoving at Harry’s shoulder and lifting his arm until he’d settled happily under Harry’s arm.

And Harry?

Harry doesn’t know what to do.

They haven’t cuddled in a long while, is the thing. Sure, they’d been nothing but hugs and kisses in the first few years, caught up in the whirlwind of fame and each other’s company — but it had settled the same way all things do with time. Louis had got a girlfriend, Harry realised that he’d never want a girlfriend and their kinetic livewire friendship had soothed into something a little less chaotic.

It hadn’t been anyone’s fault, Harry knew. It was just the way the world went.

Still, their cuddles had vanished sometime around the end of 2012. Harry began to gravitate towards Niall, while Louis and Zayn began to wreak havoc on everyone and anything they could get their hands on.

When Zayn had left, Harry just kind of assumed it would be Liam who picked up the mantle. He and Louis were close as brothers anyway.

But it didn’t happen. Instead, there was this.

And Harry didn’t mind, honestly. It was just a thing. A thing that was a thing once, stopped being a thing and then started again. He’s not concerned.

Well, no.

Today he is a little concerned. Because today is the first time it’s happened since the fingering revolution, and Harry’s having a tough time even looking at Louis without obsessing over it.

And it turns out that touching him? That really doesn’t make it better. Instead it makes Harry think about the heat of him, the weight.

He chubs up a little in his pants.

He’s the worst human in the _world_.

“Awwww yeah,” Niall mutters under his breath, capturing Harry’s attention for a second time. His and Liam’s characters have progressed a fair way on the screen, now on what looks like a last level, going for a high score. Niall’s caressing the video controller like it’s a girl, his eyes lit up with excitement. “Come on,” he urges.

“Getting a bit invested there, Niall?” Louis asks. His voice rumbles pleasantly, vibrating deep into Harry’s chest.

“ _Shhhh_!” Niall hisses violently.

Louis rolls his eyes. Harry can’t really see from his angle, but he knows Louis well enough by now that he doesn’t have to.

It occurs to Harry that this is actually quite nice. As little time as he normally has for video games, it’s nice to be able to chill out and relax with the boys. Their break is almost upon them, and Harry knows that when it lands they’re all going to go their separate ways for a while. Not for any reason in particular, just to get a little space. He loves his boys, he does, but he’s had to deal with Liam’s sweat and Niall’s farts for almost five continuous years now — and they all deserve a break from that, at the very least.

But here, now, they’re all just calm, relaxed and happy. 

“This is it,” Niall whispers, a little louder now. “Liam, all you have to do is kill this guy and we’ll have completed the game.”

“Eleanor texted me yesterday,” Louis says.

Harry’s heart actually, physically seizes.

On the screen, Liam’s character burst into flames.

“NOOO!” Niall wails.

“She what?” Liam demands, spinning around to stare at Louis with wide, shocked eyes.

Louis nods his head firmly, rubbing his cheek on Harry’s chest. Two or three bristles of his beard push through the thin fabric of Harry’s t-shirt, scraping at his skin.

Thankfully, Louis doesn’t seem to see the way Harry’s dick twitches in his pants. He’s too busy nodding his head resolutely. “She texted me,” he says.

Liam gapes at him.

Harry gets it.

Niall buries his head in the couch cushions, sobbing theatrically. Harry is ninety percent sure that his anguish is a result of the video game mishap, not Eleanor’s newfound desire to reconnect with Louis.

Liam either doesn’t notice, or doesn’t care. (Harry bets it’s the latter.) “ _Why_?” he demands. 

Louis shrugs.

This is, apparently, not good enough.

“What did she even _say_?” Liam demands.

Liam’s an earnest guy. He’s always been an earnest guy. But sometimes, Harry thinks, a bit of a filter might be good for him. As it is, the unhindered shock that’s currently soaked into Liam’s every pore, comes across as a little insulting. Harry can feel the way Louis’ reacting to it, bristling, his hackles rising defensively.

Harry takes it on himself to manage damage control. “Stop staring, you dick,” Harry says. He bumps Louis a little with his arm. “This is a good thing, right?”

Louis shrugs a little. “Think so,” he says.

After taking a long second to school his face into something a little less completely gobsmacked, Liam tries again. “What did she say, Lou?” he asks, softly this time.

“Just that she was sorry, I guess,” he says. “That she shouldn’t have done it and she regrets it.”

“I bloody well hope she does,” Harry grumbles.

The idea of the tweet itself make Harry feel absolutely awful. He can’t even imagine what it must be like for Louis, to know that his mum and his sisters and his old school teachers have all read it. It’s a betrayal of trust, something that the rest of the world has turned into a joke at his expense.

That Harry’s base reaction has been to fantasize about it isn’t much better, though. He swallows down the feeling of shame that threatens to rise within him, and soothes his hand across Louis’ shoulder.

There’s a small, sullen pause in the room.

Niall breaks it.

He lifts his head abruptly from the couch cushions and looks murderously at Liam. “Liam _bloody_ Payne, what the bloodying fuck was _that_?”

Liam still looks a little like the world is spinning too fast for it. He blinks at Niall and then frowns. “What?” he says.

Niall pegs him in the face with a cushion. Hard.

“Ow, what, Niall—?” Liam splutters.

“You stupid fucker!” Niall roars, now throwing everything he can get his hands on. The television remote hits Liam’s head with a very loud _smack_! “Getting that far took us bloody forever and you fucking ruined it!”

By Harry’s estimates, getting that far had taken them at the most ten minutes. But that was none of his business.

Liam ducks the projectiles futilely, desperately trying to hide his whole body behind Harry’s knees. “What?” he says again, “Niall — don’t you think we have more important things to talk about?”

Harry’s not even sure Niall has heard Louis’ announcement, too caught up in the thrill of the game that Liam had so succinctly ruined for him. But the truth becomes quickly apparent. Niall’s run out of things on the couch to throw, so he starts tugging off his own sneakers and throwing those.

“The Eleanor thing?” he demands, pegging the shoes at Liam with a vengeance. “Does anyone really care about that stupid tweet? Like it’s a surprise that Louis likes it up the bum.”

Louis squeaks indignantly.

“Come on,” Niall continues, before anyone can say anything to stop him. Harry feels the vague sense of some hard thing hurdling, unstoppably, and another distinctly hard thing. “Anyone could have seen that coming a mile off — is anyone actually bothered?”

And suddenly the room goes a little quieter. It wasn’t Niall’s intention, Harry knows, but his words bring a tight, stifling feeling to the air — something that stills as they all suddenly consider his question.

Under his arm, Louis has gone very, very tense.

Liam gapes for a terrifying, silent second. Then he splutters again, a ducks out from behind Harry’s knees. “What? No! Of course not, I was just making sure he was oka—”

The second trainer hits him squarely in the face. Apparently now that he’s confirmed he’s unconcerned by Eleanor’s apology or Louis’ announcement, he’s fair game. Liam dives away from the meagre protection Harry’s legs had afforded him, this time trying to conceal himself more effectively behind the beanbag Niall had left vacant. Niall leaps on him.

Harry pays them no mind. Instead, he draws Louis impossibly closer, tucked under his arm. He rubs a thumb across the soft skin at Louis’ nape.

“You know I don’t care either, right?” he checks.

Louis nods his head and hums, but doesn’t say anything.

Harry nudges him again. “Right? Like, I’m glad she’s apologised and everything but it doesn’t mean that — you don’t have anything to be ashamed of, okay?”

Louis twists his head this time, craning his neck backwards and gazing up at Harry. He seems to think about it this time, before he nods. “Yeah,” he sighs.

Harry doesn’t know what he can say to make this better, so he falls back on an old classic. “You want to get drunk tonight?” he asks.

This time Louis doesn’t hesitate. “Oh, my god, yes.”

.

Three hours later, they are drunk.

Exactly as they’d planned, Harry thinks errantly. They’re good at this shit. Why are they singers when they could be super good planners who plan?

“That is a terrific point, Harold,” Louis says.

Harry secretly likes it when Louis calls him Harold.

“I knew it,” Louis says.

Fuck.

There’s a chance Harry’s said that out loud.

“You said that out loud too, love,” Louis says.

Harry also likes it when Louis calls him love. He used to say it all the time, as much as he said Harold. They’d both petered out along with everything else, way back when.

This time he doesn’t say it out loud. He’s like ninety percent sure.

Louis lets out a loud, dramatic sigh. It gets caught in Liam’s tiny living room, the squishing carpet and beige walls far too small for all of Louis’ everything.

“How did it come to this, Harold?” Louis asks. “What are we doing?”

Harry is in the middle of mapping the marks on Liam’s ceiling and making sure he doesn’t accidentally say more stuff out loud. It’s a very difficult thing; he’s realised, to multitask. He doesn’t know how women do it.

“Do what?” Louis asks.

Damnit.

It’s just him and Louis lying on the floor of Liam’s living room. Niall and Liam had vanished earlier, heading for Liam’s backyard when Sophia got home. It’s a tradition of their, apparently — Sophia and Liam’s, that is — to have a drink on their deck in the evenings. Harry thinks it’s nice.

It leaves Harry and Louis alone, which is also nice. And, lying as they are, Harry doesn’t find himself even the slightest bit tempted to look at Louis’ fingers. He is an adult, an adult that can control his impulses and resolutely will not perv all over his best friend.

Louis is his best friend, he thinks. Even after everything, even if they weren’t for a little bit in the middle there.

There’s a loud shuffling noise, before his best friend’s head appears, hovering over Harry’s. “You didn’t answer my question,” he says.

Harry can’t remember the question.

Louis sighs and drops back to the floor. Their heads are much closer this time. “You’re useless,” he says.

Harry pouts.

Louis sighs again when he sees it. Then he bats one of his exuberant hands in Harry’s face. “No, enough of that,” he says. “Don’t look at me like that, it’s not fair.”

“Yeah?” Harry says, drunk enough to feel slightly challenging. “Well I’m not useless.”

That same exuberant hand lands on Harry’s face, cupping Harry’s cheek with slightly more force than is probably necessary. “I know that,” Louis says. “Course you’re not.”

Louis is, if not anything else, an incredibly, incredibly confusing human being.

Harry doesn’t say that bit out loud, but apparently his eyebrows do the talking for them. One of Louis’ fingers pokes curiously at the crease in his brow. “Stop it,” Louis says. “I said don’t look at me like that.”

Harry huffs. “I’m not looking at you like anything!”

Louis pokes his face again, right between his eyes. “Yes, you are.”

Harry is finding it incredibly difficult not to think about Louis’ fingers, with them waving so tantalisingly close. He kind of wants to lick them — but even Drunk Harry can tell what an outrageously bad idea that would be.

Louis is straight. Even if he likes having things up his butt.

“Louis?” Harry hears himself ask. “Do you like having things up your butt?”

The fingers on his face freeze. Apparently Drunk Harry _isn’t_ actually that good at telling the difference between good and bad ideas.

When Louis slowly removes his hand, though, the look on his face isn’t angry or murderous or any of the awful things Harry was expecting. Instead, Louis’ sweet, lovely face looks soft. Thoughtful, even.

He smiles a little to himself. “S’pose I do,” he says. “No reason to hide it now, is there?”

Confident that he is now allowed to talk about this, Harry shakes his head encouragingly. “Nope,” he says. “None at all.”

“It’s really just the thing to do, innit?” he asks Harry. “I’m the ultimate modern man, telling the world about my sex life without shame. Fuck gender norms, and all that.”

Harry nods. “Absolutely,” he says. “Fuck them.”

“Didn’t really want my mum to know, though,” Louis says. Now he sounds a little sad. “Could have done without that.”

Harry reaches out a hand to stroke Louis’ hair. He thinks he’s far gentler than Louis had been, but Louis still flinches a little. Harry pats him a little extra just for that.

“Louis,” he says solemnly. “You don’t have to be ashamed of putting thing in your butt.”

Louis looks at him fondly. Harry likes it. “No?”

Harry shakes his head again. “Nah,” he says. He doesn’t tell Louis that it’s actually the hottest thing in the world to him, the thought of Louis writhing and stuffed full of fingers.

Only, when he focuses his eyes on Louis’ face, the older boy looks like he’s been hit by a train.

“I said that out loud again, didn’t I?” Harry asks.

Louis only gapes.

“Did I say the stuffed thing?”

The strangled noise Louis makes is more of a garbled whine than words, so Harry doesn’t try too hard to translate it.

“Sorry,” Harry says.

Louis shakes his head, if a little absently. “Don’t apologise,” he says.

“Would you let me?” Harry asks next.

Louis stares at him. “Let you,” he echoes.

Harry nods. “You know, see you. With, with your fingers?”

Louis blinks. Louis blinks _a lot._

“Or my fingers?” Harry says, at the thought occurs to him. “My fingers are bigger than yours; I think you’d like them.”

Louis lets out another one of his noises. Harry lifts his hand and spreads out his fingers, holding his palm out the front of Louis’ face. “See?” he says.

Swallowing, Louis nods. “I can see.”

“Would you like them?” Harry asks. “You know, down there?”

Louis reaches up and takes a firm hold of Harry’s hand. Carefully, he strokes his fingertips along the inside of Harry’s fingers, folding them down one by one until he can hold Harry’s closed fist in both of his hands. Then he cranes his head up and presses a kiss to Harry’s knuckles.

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” he says quietly, gazing at Harry. “I think it’s time for you to get home.”

Harry wants to protest, he really does. The backs of his fingers are tingling, a combination of the sweet, soft kiss and Louis’ electrifying touch. But then he thinks about his bed.

“Did I tell you about my new mattress, Lou?”

Louis shakes his head, smiling. If Harry dozes off in the middle of telling Louis about the magical powers of compressed foam, then it’s left between the two of them.

.

The next day, Harry remembers everything.

He wishes — fuck, he wishes more than anything — that he couldn’t, that he could claim ignorance, but he’s the worst actor in the world and Louis’ known him for a long time.

The only natural option for him now is to make this hiatus permanent and to move to another country.

The door knocks before he can do more than type ‘flights’ into the Google search bar. Fucking hell, he thinks. This is why other people do this for him. He _is_ useless.

He thumps down the stairs more out of obligation than anything, hoping with every single fibre of his being that it’s not —

“Louis.”

“Harry,” Louis greets him. He’s got a dumb smirk on his face, the kind that spells a very specific sort of trouble for Harry. “Can I come in?”

Harry feels a little struck dumb, to be honest. “Uh,” he says. “You want to?”

The thing is Harry can make all the jokes he wants to, but the fact that he sexually harassed one of his closest friends last night isn’t really that funny. And Louis’ not the sort of person who would let Harry get away with something like that.

For some bizarre reason, Louis nods.

Harry steps out of the way, trying not to look as dumbfounded as he feels.

“So,” Louis says when Harry’s closed the front door behind him. “About last night—”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts. “Fuck, I am so, so sorry I said those things to you. It was rude and it was gross and I shouldn’t have, I know how awful it was.”

Harry could go on and on if he let himself, but he learnt a while ago that apologies aren’t about the person apologising, so he stops himself. There is an excruciatingly long pause, during which Louis only watches him evenly.

Then he sighs. “You shouldn’t have,” he agrees. And then, because Louis’ always been a fan of throwing fucking curveballs, “Do you still want to?”

Harry thinks he can be excused his moment of silence. A static buzz rings in his ears.

He clears his throat. “Uh,” he says. “What?”

Louis shrugs. He’s got his hands shoved deep into the front pocket of his hoodie and it shrugs with him when he moves. “Do you still want to, you know, finger me?”

Harry loses pretty much all the feeling in his legs as all the blood in him rushes straight to his dick. He’s only wearing sweatpants so it’s not very subtle.

Louis eyes him appraisingly. “That looks like a yes,” he says after another beat. His gaze flicks back up to meet Harry’s gobsmacked gaze. “But I’d really rather hear you say it.”

“But,” Harry stutters. “But you’re straight?!”

Louis shrugs again. He really should stop doing that if he’s going to wear jumpers like that. It’s too fucking distracting. “Uh, yeah, about that,” he says. “...Surprise?”

This is too much.

Louis apparently doesn’t care.

“So, how ‘bout it?” he asks. “Like, you don’t have to, if you don’t want. But I thought since you were talking about it last night, we could, like, give it a go? I’ve thought about it for a while, actually.”

Harry can feel himself swaying a little bit, where he stands. It’s probably because of his boner.

“You’ve thought about it?” he finds himself croaking.

Louis nods. Harry would think he was completely at ease having this conversation, if it weren’t for the way he can’t seem to look away from his feet. “Yeah,” he says. “I mean, you were, like, the reason I asked her to do it in the first place, so...”

Harry is going to faint.

“I was?”

Louis lets out an annoyed little huff. “Look, are you just going to keep repeating the shit I say?” he demands. “Because I’m not super interested in hanging around, if you are.”

Harry lunges at him.

Louis shrieks.

His shrieks turn to scandalised laughter when Harry hauls the smaller boy up over his shoulder, settling the bum that’s been haunting him right next to his cheek and making his way up the stairs.

“Harry, you fucking freak!” Louis practically screams. “You’re going to fucking drop me!”

Puh- _lease_. Harry thinks. He would never, not when he’s carrying such precious cargo. He tells Louis as much.

“Call me cargo again, I fucking dare you.”

Somehow, despite Louis hanging over Harry’s shoulder, the threat carries a terrifying kind of weight. When they reach the top landing, he delicately sets Louis down on his feet.

“Right,” Harry says. “Sorry.”

Louis kisses him.

Harry squeaks. He kicks himself into gear the next second though, settling his hand on the curve of Louis’ waist and sinking into it. Louis tastes like — well, he tastes like Louis. Like a clean shower, minty teeth and some kind of shower gel Harry’s going to get memory stiffies to for the rest of his fucking life.

Also, he kisses like a fucking demon. It’s a dirty slide of tongues, wet and soft and exactly the way Harry likes to snog someone. He pinches at the flesh at Louis’ hips, dragging him closer. He notices, pleasantly and with no small amount of satisfaction, that he isn’t the only one physically enjoying the exchange.

He presses his thigh relentlessly into Louis’ dick, swallows the responding whine.

Then he remembers Louis’ butt.

Oh, holy lord, how could he have forgotten about Louis’ butt?

To make up for lost time he uses both hands to reach down and take a handful. Louis squeaks into his mouth as Harry squeezes him, using his grip to pull Louis even fucking closer.

“I’m gonna die,” he mumbles uselessly into Louis’ mouth. “M’gonna fucking die.”

Louis detaches them with a wet squelch, and grins wickedly at him. His mouth is so fucking pink.

“Yeah,” he pants. “But what a way to go, hey?” Then he takes one of Harry’s hands, very firmly. “Where’s your bedroom?”

Harry practically pushes him down the hallway. When they reach Harry’s room, neither of them wastes any time divesting themselves over their shirts.

Louis has only just thrown his shirt to the ground when Harry’s on him again. Louis’ made of miles and miles of warm, soft skin and Harry wants to touch every single inch of it. He starts with Louis’ lips again — they’re too wet and pink for Harry to rightly ignore — and they tumble backwards onto Harry’s bed.

They detach after a second, shoving away all the shit Harry’s errantly gathered as a single man with a king size mattress. They shove away his extra pillows, stray clothes and other shit — Harry devotes a delicate three seconds to placing his laptop carefully on the bedside table — before getting back to it.

“You’re so big,” Louis pants, as Harry does his best to squish him into the mattress.

Harry preens. “Yeah, I am,” he says.

Louis smacks him. “I meant your shoulders, you asshole. You, all of you, when did you get so big?”

Harry doesn’t actually remember the day he realised he was a head taller than Louis, but he remembers being happy about it. He also doesn’t remember when his lust for Louis turned into this, this overwhelming, all consuming sense of need, but he’s happy about that as well.

“Dunno,” he says. “You like it though, right?”

Louis nods his head hurriedly. “Yeah, yeah. Yes,” he says. He clenches his hand in Harry’s hair and drags him down, perhaps a little more roughly than Harry is used to, so that they can kiss again.

Harry really likes kissing Louis, he realises. He likes kissing Louis’ lips, his jaw, his neck and his collarbones. He likes kissing Louis’ skin, every inch he can reach, all the while pressing his hips mercilessly down, grinding with an almost mindless purpose. More than all of that, he likes the sound it drags out of Louis — a breathless, high moan that sets Harry’s blood on fire.

Why the fucking hell do they still have pants on?

He asks Louis as much. Louis lets out a winded, happy laugh. “How the fuck am I supposed to get my pants off with you humping my leg?”

Harry doesn’t know why but he slightly resents Louis’ use of the word humping. Maybe it’s because it implies Louis wasn’t humping him right back.

“You like my humping,” Harry says imperiously.

Louis scrunches up his nose. “Humping is a gross word.”

Harry has to kiss him again, _obviously._ He’s powerless to stop himself.

Once he’s drunk in his fill, the phantom of Louis’ teeth pressing into his bottom lip, he works up the energy to pushes himself off Louis. He rolls to the side and giving them both room to unbutton.

“I thought we said something about fingers?” Louis says. “Are we doing fingers?”

Harry shoots him a look. “We are gonna do _so_ many fingers,” he promises lecherously.

Then he frowns.

Louis frowns as well.

Then he says, “We’re gonna have to work on your dirty talk.”

Harry might have complained, maybe made an attempt to defend himself, but then Louis takes off his pants, shucking his boxers in one swift move — and Harry finds it difficult to breathe, let alone speak.

“Oh, my god,” he says. “Oh, my god, look at your arse.”

Louis scowls. “Excuse you—” he begins, but Harry’s already got his hands on him. The protest, whatever it was, dies on Louis’ lips. “Oh.” He says.

Harry’s going to die a happy man, he thinks. With an arse like this in his hands, he may well have been ruined for all other arses. He curves his fingers down to where arse meets thigh and digs his fingers in, revelling in the soft warmth it in his hands.

“Hands and knees,” he chants, before he realises himself. “Hands and knees, hands and knees, come on.”  

Looking fond and frustrated and amused all at once, Louis rolls his eyes. “Harry Styles, you charmer,” he says. He gets on his hands and knees though. The curve of his back is fucking _sinful._

“Hey,” Harry says, as he crawls closer. “I’m very charming. Now spread.”

He crawls into the space between Louis’ legs, smoothing his hands over Louis’ soft skin and thumbing his cheeks before pulling them apart.

“Jesus,” Louis breathes out. “You don’t beat around the bush, do you?”

Harry hums. “I make it a rule not to, actually.”

Louis groans and drops his head. Harry chuckles and tries not to feel too pleased with himself. “That was awful,” Louis says.

Harry doesn’t reply, devoting his attention instead to the small, pink hole fluttering under his gaze. God, Harry wants to get his fingers in him. But first—

Harry flattens his tongue and licks a broad stroke right across his pink entrance.

Louis’ whole body reacts. Under Harry’s tongue, his hole clenches down on nothing. Harry’s bloody fucking sings.

“Jesus _fuck—!_ ”

Harry pulls back. While he’s flattered by the response, he hasn’t actually gotten started yet. Besides, Louis shout — while obviously turned on — had been tinged with more than a bit of confusion.

“You haven’t done this before?” he guesses.

“What the fuck, no!” Louis says, sounds almost manic. “I didn’t even know _this_ was a thing!”

Harry pauses. “Oh,” he says. His hands, on Louis’ cheeks, are spreading him almost of their own volition. Fuck, he really wants to get his mouth back on him. “Do you like it?”

“Are you kidding?” Louis gasps out when Harry brushes a finger over him, “Of course I like it!”

Feeling slightly smug and very, very satisfied, Harry grins. “S’good hey?”

“Harry!” Louis shouts. “Shut the fuck up and do it again.”

And, well, Harry is more than happy to oblige. He laves his tongue all over Louis, beginning with long wide licks that pull from his balls to his back. When Louis’ mewling exactly the way he should be, Harry devotes a little more attention to his rim.

By the time he finally begins fucking Louis with his tongue, the boy is practically sobbing. His hips are shoving back onto Louis’ face with a force Harry hasn’t encountered in quite a while, and god does it feel good — to know that he’s the one responsible for it, for doing _that_ to Louis.

He can’t help himself when his hands come into play. He knows better than to start without lube, so he presses the flat of his thumb across him instead. He doesn’t know who he’s teasing, Louis or himself.

His voice is hoarse when he gasps out, “Lube. We need lube.”

And Louis might have been sobbing five seconds ago, but he’s still _Louis._ “It’s your fucking house, you fucking twat.”

“Right,” Harry says. “You’re right.”

Still, he can’t quite manage to pull himself away until Louis shouts, “Harry!”

Harry scrambles for his bedside table, returning triumphant in seconds. He fumbles so excitably for the cap that when it does open, it spurts all over his fingers.

Louis snorts. “Nice,” he says. “Very suave.”

“Shut up,” Harry says, doing his best to spread the lube on one hand while closing the tube with the other.

Surprisingly, Louis actually shuts up. He must really want Harry’s fingers.

Harry finds out how much in the following few seconds, when he takes the opportunity to sink the first in, down to the knuckle. An absolutely gorgeous sound escapes Louis, a soft little whine and a pleading moan all at once.

“Is it good?” Harry asks. His voice cracks. He doesn’t care. He’s torn between staring at his finger and staring at Louis’ face. Louis’ got his head pillowed on his arms, his eyes closed and his mouth hanging open.

When Harry asks, Louis licks his lips and does his best to clear his throat. He sounds hoarse as all fuck when he speaks, anyway. “Yeah,” he pants. “S’good, s’good.”

Harry touches another finger to his rim. He teases him for a second, before slips in beside the first.

Louis lets out another one of those beautiful fucking noises.

“Jesus,” Harry says, as he begins to move his fingers with more intent. “Fucking, Christ. We could have been doing this for years.”

Louis, eyes still closed, shakes his head. “Nah,” he says. “I had to get you trained up first. Don’t go arse up for just anyone.”

Harry grins. “Really?” he asks, “Cause that’s not what it looks like to me. Looks like you’d bend over and spread for the first person that asked; you’re so desperate for it.”

It’s a coincidence — a happy, perfect coincidence — that Harry crooks his fingers at exactly the right second, finding Louis’ prostate at the same time as Louis’ dick gives a feeble jump and leaks from the tip. Louis lets out a weak moan.

“Mhmm, there it is,” Harry says. “You like that?”

He presses down again, takes great, great pleasure in the way that Louis’ thighs flex in response.

“I’d like it if you shut the fuck up,” Louis snarls.

Harry takes the opportunity to slip in his ring finger. Louis’ whole body reacts to the intrusion, but in a matter of seconds he’s pushing back on it.

“Louis,” Harry asks hoarsely.

Louis, for all his talk, doesn’t seem to mind that Harry’s talking. Maybe he’s a little distracted. Harry would understand if he was. Still, the only thing he says is, “Yeah?”

“You ever have more than just fingers?”

Louis’ hips still for a second and his eyes fly open. They dart from Harry’s, down to his cock — jutting out almost desperately from between Harry’s thighs, practically begging for some love — then back up.

“Yeah?” he says. Harry knows it’s not an answer. It’s a question.

Harry nods. “Only if you want, babe,” he says.

Louis blinks. Harry keeps his fingers still. This is one of those times he doesn’t want Louis distracted, doesn’t want him giving an answer that he might regret later. He’s pleased though, when Louis licks his lips again and nods.

Harry pulls his fingers out with a disgustingly wet noise that makes both of them giggle, before moving to the bed side drawer again. After he’s pulled out and put on a condom, he tries to negotiate with the lube bottle for the second time. And if he gets a little distracted once or twice, his gaze caught on the open, inviting furl of Louis’ ass — pleading for more attention, then who can really blame him.

He manages it in the end, though. He throws the lube completely off the bed when he’s done with it then moves for Louis. He reaches for his shoulder though, urging him to turn over.

“Come on,” he says. “On your back, yeah?”

Louis blinks up at him, pupils blown, and nods. “Yeah,” he says. He says it again, more clearly, as he rolls over. “Yeah, please.”

The lube left on Harry’s fingers makes an absolute mess of the pillow he uses to prop up Louis’ hips. Neither of them seem to care. He braces himself over Louis, pressing a kiss to his lips and losing himself in it for a moment.

A soft sigh escapes Louis as he reaches up to hold Harry’s jaw, a happy, contented little thing. Harry wants to hear it every day until he dies.

They kiss for a while, until Harry’s dick makes itself known. He reaches down and lines himself up, keeping his eyes locked on Louis’.

They both make some noise when he finally sinks home. “Jesus,” Louis says, the word long and low and drawn out.

Just Harry, Harry wants to say. He would say it, probably, if he thought for one second that Louis wouldn’t smack him right across the face for it.

“I know,” he says instead. “Fuck, you feel good.”

“God,” Louis says. “We’re so fucking lame. We’ve got to stop saying shit like that.”

Harry holds himself still, while Louis adjusts, and takes the opportunity to plant a little kiss on Louis’ nose. Louis makes a little discontent noise, but can’t quite manage to keep the smile off his face.

Ha, Harry thinks. Round one to Styles.

He begins to thrust, slowly at first and steadily gaining speed. It’s a sight to behold, Louis’ bumping up and down on his cock. Louis hand comes up to his cock, jacking himself in the frantic offbeat of Harry’s quickening thrusts.

“Oh, my god,” he says, stretching his head backward and exposing the pale lines of his throat. “Oh, my god, we should do this all the time.”

Harry cranes his head down to bite at Louis’ pulse. “Seconded,” he pants.

They don’t last long. Louis’ comes on a chorus of sweet, little ‘ _uh, uh_ ’ sounds that really only serve to push Harry over the edge faster. Harry might worry, that he’s rushed his only chance or that he hasn’t made it as good as Louis’ deserves — when he remembers who he’s dealing with.

As he softens inside Louis, Louis reaches an exhausted hand up to pull him down for a kiss.

“I’m gonna have a nap,” he says, “on account of the sleep I lost when I was stressing over last night.”

Harry goes to apologise again, but Louis doesn’t give him the chance.

“And,” Louis continues. “You’re gonna show me how four fingers feels different to three, right?”

And yeah. Harry’s definitely going to die.

But _man_ , is he going to die happy.

.

“Do you reckon I should tweet Eleanor or something?” Harry asks, sometime later. There’s a pool of come cooling on his tummy, some of it falling into his bellybutton. Gross.

Louis sits up so abruptly that his pillow falls off the bed. “What?”

Harry shrugs.

“You know?” he says. He can feel himself starting to smile, desperately tries to control himself. He continues with a mostly straight face. “I could reply, be like ‘Don’t worry. He’s always got me’ or something like that.”

Louis punches him, right in the dick.

It’s worth it.

.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Look. 
> 
> You're the one who clicked the link, okay? I accept zero responsibility if you've made it this far. 
> 
> (tumblr post [here](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/post/138752905972) / follow me [here](http://bottomlinsons.tumblr.com/))


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